


Dear Reader

by wifidelis



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M, Fluff, It's just cute, One Shot, i wrote this a year ago for a friend lol, lemony uses his type writer to annoy beatrice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14223273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wifidelis/pseuds/wifidelis
Summary: Lemony occasionally breaks out his type writer to record stories about his day. Today, he is writing about his soon-to-be wife, Beatrice [last name redacted]. Enjoy!





	Dear Reader

I have always regarded a rather dear friend of mine as a wonderful and radiant woman. Radiant can mean “shining” or perhaps “bright”, but here the author chooses to use it in the terms that equate it to mean “beautiful”. For many years I have sat in a rather comfortable chair pondering the origins of her radiance, and I have yet to chalk up an answer to such an intriguing and otherwise pointless question. Another dear friend, a herpetologist with a repetitive name, would suggest it to be a result of independent assortment and genetics. I, however, believe in a much more ludicrous answer that comes to me ever so often when a smile graces her gentle features, or when her laugh reminds me of the tinkling of bells. This answer is, quite cheesily, that it comes from her radiant, shimmering, sparkling, and lustrous personality.

Her red lipstick is also rather fetching.

Beatrice Lemony, Dear, Please Refrain From Using My Maiden Name Because It Brings Me Such Sorrow sits across from me now as I type this sickeningly sweet passage on a typewriter gifted to me by a wonderful sibling whose name reminds me of a delicious and adored candy bar. She sits poised and aplomb with a posture that would make nuns weep with gaiety, a book titled _A Collection of Works by One Philip Larkin_ held under a magnifying glass as she read it carefully. I cannot fathom what code she is looking for in such a book, but it would bring me to weep with gaiety as her tongue poked between scarlet lips, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Here, I could cease referring to her as radiant and perhaps select a few words that would earn me a swift smack over the head with a rolled up newspaper that we both agree is worthless in quality.

Adorable, charming, dainty, pleasant, and delightful are a few of these words.

I regret to inform you that Beatrice abandon her work to make sure I had not used her maiden name, discovered the adjectives I used to describe her, and indeed whacked my head with the newspaper in question.

“Lemony,” she warned, glancing over her shoulder with a dangerous smile. “You know how those words get my goat.”

Get my goat is a phrase which means that I have annoyed a radiant woman and I will possibly be paying for it later when she refuses to pass me the butter over breakfast tomorrow.

Beatrice has since resumed sitting across from me, pulling her knees to her chest to lean over her collection of poems to examine it in greater detail. I shall now take the opportunity to describe my love’s appearance in excessive detail. Beatrice Soon-To-Be-Snicket is a tall and impressive woman, thin but not small, who can bear a smile that can strike a multitude of emotions in one’s heart. For myself in particular, her smile can make me feel rapture, adoration, and even fear if I have accidentally broken a vase I should have never tried to move without help, but did anyway. Her hair is dark, as are her eyes, and both still possess a radiant quality to them. Her hair is like black silk, done up in an intricate style that I am convinced takes more than 30 bobby pins to complete. Her eyes are like chips of flint; cold, but sparking a flame when she sees someone dear to her heart. Her fashion is lovely and accents her personality nicely (as if she is ready to sneak into a government facility at 2, but has a family dinner at 6), and the aforementioned red lipstick is fetching indeed. Her movements are sharp and to the point, but also carry a smooth and graceful air. Strangely enough, she is left handed.

Suddenly, her eyes have sparked a flame as she snappily shuts her book and turns to me.

“Lemony, a rootbeer float sounds wonderful right now!”

Beatrice is also a woman of spontaneity, a word which here means “wanting to go out to get ice cream at odd hours of the night”.

I lovingly tell her it is not a socially acceptable thing to break into the ice cream parlor in the midst of the night, to which she responds by leaping out of her chair and striding over to me, attempting to look intimidating in a silk nightgown.

“Of course it isn’t! It’d be crass to do so,” she flips her wrist at me. “I was suggesting we make them together.”

Frankly, that sounds splendid, so I will hereby abandon my writing for a time to enjoy a floating ice cream soda with my darling Beatrice.

Now that I have returned with a rootbeer float and a future Snicket has returned to glaring at her book of intriguing poetry, I will now account for the events that transpired in our kitchen as we made our frozen treats. Truthfully, only one event of great note took place, which I will now divulge to you in secret in the effort to tickle your fancy or otherwise cause you a sense of some amusement. This event might only be endearing and funny to myself in particular, but I feel it necessary to share because I find it adorable.

Beatrice must have sensed I typed the word adorable in regards to her because she is looking at me funnily from across the pond, a phrase which here means across the coffee table from another chair.

For those who are not familiar with the ways of Beatrice Soon-To-Be-Snicket-But-Not-Quite-Yet, she is a woman of many talents developed from years of strange training and odd schooling. She could be a tamer of bats in a circus if she so wished, she is allergic to peppermint which I find highly tragic, and she unfortunately is incapable of scooping ice cream.

Often, this task falls to me, but as I was chilling our glasses with a contraption of my love’s own invention, she took it upon herself. I so happened to raise my head in time to find Beatrice fling a sizable scoop of vanilla ice cream into the air and to watch it stick to the ceiling. We shared a laugh over this until the ice cream came tumbling down onto the floor, which took some time to clean as ice cream is sticky and messy when it melts.

Beatrice is staring at me again. I fear she knows I am accounting her… Dorky ways.

For fear of my own sound slumber tonight, I will stop writing here. I shall hide this paper for a time and develop it into a code for my candy bar named sister, who simply must read this story.

With all due respect,  
_**Lemony Snicket**_


End file.
